


the sky is falling

by Spatchcock



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Gen, Grief, Grieving, Lizzie Tucker - Freeform, Nightmares, Trip's Sister, Xindi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:30:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8320960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatchcock/pseuds/Spatchcock
Summary: Lizzie —

He could hear her screaming.

  Lizzie —

He wanted to throw up.

  Lizzie no —

The world shook, disgorging great chunks of earth, as purple-white death blasted down like angry lava.

  Run! Lizzie run!

He could hear her screaming. He could feel her screaming. His baby sister screaming as the ceiling collapsed, pinning her, as the floor gave out beneath her, as her spine was snapped and her eyes started to boil in their sockets he could still hear her —
“Commander!”
Trip blinked. Dammit. Again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Some violent imagery but not too graphic. Canon-compliant.

_Lizzie_ —

He could hear her screaming.

_Lizzie_ —

He wanted to throw up.

_Lizzie no_ —

The world shook, disgorging great chunks of earth, as purple-white death blasted down like angry lava.

_Run! Lizzie run!_

He could hear her screaming. He could feel her screaming. His baby sister screaming as the ceiling collapsed, pinning her, as the floor gave out beneath her, as her spine was snapped and her eyes started to boil in their sockets he could still _hear her_ —

“Commander!”

Trip blinked. Dammit. Again.

“Sorry, Hess. Yeah, it’s done. Go ahead.” The lieutenant watched for a moment, concerned, but he nodded and waved her off. She yelled instructions to someone farther up the line. Work resumed with a clatter.

Work which didn’t need his personal undivided highly focused attention, unfortunately. Thanks to his own ingenuity, zipping along at Warp 5 was no longer a constant strain on the engines. _Enterprise_ had barely slowed to take a sensor reading the whole way back home. No crises, no life-threatening injuries, no damage, no distractions. What he wouldn’t give for a fused injector right about now.

Trip didn’t really want to talk about it with anyone. Malcolm knew but was generally too polite to force the issue. His staff didn’t need to know. The captain had his own set of problems, and the uneasiness which had developed between the two men after the whole mess with the cogenitor would have made it difficult to unburden himself under the best of circumstances. Which these were not. In fact, they were about the worst circumstances he thought he’d ever had to live through. Live. At least he was living. Not seared into a blackened grasping skeleton like dammit! Tiny ball hanging in the clear blue sky raining down the fires of hell on innocent _dammit_! Think About Something Else!

Dials. Gauges. Readouts in front of him. Whateverthehellitwas he’d been doing for Hess. Shit, it was so hard to concentrate. Trip rubbed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The board registered normal pretty much straight across. Rather amazing for Warp 5. Remember the good old days when Warp 2 took two pilots, a full ground crew, and a virgin sacrifice to St. Joseph of Cupertino? Now it’s just press a button, tap a panel, off we go. These kids don’t know how easy they have it.

“Sir?”

“Yeah.” Rostov hadn’t called him twice, right?

The young engineer lightly mounted the metal stairs and handed Trip two PADDs. “The fuel consumption report and something from Lieutenant Reed.”

“Thanks.” Oooh, statistics. Mind-numbing numbers. Yay. Just the ticket.

“Sir?” Trip looked up. “I don’t mean to be irritating, but...you skipped lunch again today.”

“Too late. You are being irritating.”

Rostov grinned. “Either I irritate you and you get annoyed, or I don’t irritate you and Linda keeps me up all night complaining about it.” Trip almost smiled.

“Please inform my second-in-command that you have irritated me as ordered and that she’s to let you get some sleep. Can’t have a lovers’ quarrel disruptin’ Engineering.”

“Are you actually going to eat?”

Trip began walking away, looking at the report. “Yeah, eventually.”

“Commander — ”

“I’m just not hungry, all right? Thanks for worryin’, but really, I’m fine.” He quickened his pace down the other set of stairs and strode across the room to his office. At least there he could read in peace and quiet. Eat. Hah. His stomach was one large knot which continually tried to crawl out of his throat and run away. Some days he was tempted to pack a bag and join it.

Fuel consumption. A measurement of the speed at which _Enterprise_ took matter and converted it into energy. Hot crackling energy fueling a beam of purple-white _numbers_ , yeah, percentages were up, very efficient, he had a good crew, the engines were purring like a bag of kittens.

Bag of cats. Alert siren. Reed Alert. Trip snorted faintly in remembered amusement. After a day or so most of that time had come back to him, and he and Malcolm had shared a few beers and laughed themselves stupid at their own obsessions. He’d apologized, Mal had apologized back, they’d made fun of Hoshi and Archer some more, and then spent ten minutes trying to come up with even ruder ways to describe those awful sirens. The worst had been something like “a train full of screaming Andorians on fire.” Screaming on fire. Why had that been so funny? How could he have been so cruel?

Malcolm. All right, what the hell does Malcolm want, anyway? The other PADD was a repairs update. The hole in the wall of the firing range had been fixed — Kells was enthusiastic about the phase pistol training, just not very good at it — but one of the small generators was still out, and Rodriguez had a bug up his ass about the targeting scanner in the number two phase cannon not being seated correctly in the housing.

“Ens. Rodriguez has repeatedly reported ‘something is loose’ in the scanner assembly. Despite confirmation from Engineering staff that ‘something was tightened’ in the assembly, his reports continue unabated,” Malcolm wrote in his typical dry style. “ArmSec wonders if perhaps the loose screw resides in Ens. Rodriguez’s cranium, rather than the scanner housing.”

Trip wrote back: “Engineering concurs with ArmSec’s analysis. While screws generally fall under Engineering’s purveyance, in this instance, Engineering recommends that Medical be dispatched to address the problem.” There, a joke, that oughta hold him for another few hours. Medical. Doctors. Don’t think about it. Ambulances racing to the scene too late. Nothing to save. Crushed under a ton of rock. Roasted in her own skin. Or thrown a hundred meters into the air. Or just obliterated before she had a chance to scream. To hurt. To feel afraid. Did they see the end coming? Did they see the sky split in two?

Numbers, glorious numbers, happy statistics, fuel report, la la la. Oh I’m a lumberjack and I’m okay, I sleep all night and I —

“Archer to Tucker.”

He took his feet off the desk and hit the comm button. “Tucker here.”

“Had lunch yet?”

“Yep.”

The captain made a faintly disappointed sound. An invitation, then, not another poke in the ribs. “What’s the special?”

“Something soup. I forget. I had a sandwich.”

“Busy?”

“Sort of.”

“Keep me company?”

Trip knew in his heart of hearts that Starfleet would never put intra-ship video terminals on people’s desks specifically so that moments like this wouldn’t wreck anyone’s career. He could fake a cheery voice, but removing his scowl on such short notice would have required a non-recommended use of an orbital sander. “On m’way.”

“Thanks. Archer out.”

Hess was not-hovering outside his office. “The cap’n just invited me to join him for lunch,” he announced. Not a lie in the least. She closed her mouth on whatever comment she’d planned and smiled.

“Bon appetit.”

“Thanks.” He’d settle for bon digestion. Or maybe sans nausea.

There was nothing to look at in the turbolift.

_He awoke to the alarm, pried himself out of bed, washed up, looked at his to-do list. March 20. March 20! He still had a chance —_

_“Tucker to the Bridge.”_

_“T’Pol here.”_

_“Subcommander, you’ve gotta get a message to Earth. Tell ’em to be on the lookout for a weapon, a small probe, it’s gonna pop into orbit over Central America real fast. They’ve gotta knock it out. It’s an incredibly powerful weapon. Seven million people are gonna die. We’ve gotta warn them. Get the High Command on the line too, maybe there’s a Vulcan ship that can help — ”_

_“Commander, where did you get this information?”_

_“T’Pol, don’t argue with me, I can’t explain it but I know there’s a probe on the way and we’ve gotta stop it. Seven million people are going to DIE if you don’t just send the god-DAMN MESSAGE!”_

_“Trip?” Archer’s voice._

_“Cap’n. Jon. Please. If you’ve ever trusted me just call Forrest. Call him right now and tell ’em to be ready. It’s coming. People are going to die. A LOT of people are going to die. Cap’n, please. Do this for me.” For Lizzie._

_Hours later, Archer called Trip to his ready room, all but wiping the sweat from his forehead. “I don’t know how you knew, Trip, but the Vulcans were able to detect a_

“Commander.”

“Afternoon, T’Pol.”

“Did you get my memo about that grinding sound in the turbolift?” Hoshi asked.

Trip waved the PADD at her as he went by. “On the to-do list.”

“Thanks.”

_detect a distortion that turned out to be a kind of cloaked ship. Very small. The **Relak** disabled it before it could fire.” Trip slowly sank into the chair, strain pouring out of him. Lizzie was safe. She was all right. Everyone was all right._

_“It was aiming for Florida. And south. All the way to Venezuela.”_

_“Yeah. It showed up right where you said it would. The weapon on board — they’re only guessing at the power that thing has, they haven’t had the chance to really pull it apart yet — ”_

_“Enormous. Just damned enormous. You can’t imagine. Did they get the pilot?”_

_“Admiral Forrest said Starfleet has him. They’re questioning him now. Trip, how did you know?”_

_Trip swallowed, hard. “It happened. To me. I mean, to us, to Earth, but I’m the only one who remembers it. I can’t explain it, but a little while ago I was on **Enterprise** but we were runnin’ back home, to Earth, after that — thing took a chunk out of the planet. Seven million dead.”_

_Archer’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. “Seven million — Do you know who did this?”_

_“They’re called the Xindi, they’re from the Delphic_

“The special was chili, not soup.”

Trip shrugged. “It was in a bowl.” He sat and poured himself some iced tea. “Any good?”

“Yeah, it’s got some real bite to it.” Archer offered him a spoonful. Trip declined with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand. “I was thinking of telling Chef to add some _con queso_ and name it for Porthos.”

“I am not gonna touch _that_ with grappler hooks an’ asbestos gloves,” Trip drawled. Archer chuckled.

“How are the engines holding up?”

“Doin’ just fine.” Trip started back up at the top of the fuel consumption report.

“How are the engineers holding up?”

“Doin’ just fine.” Liters of dilithium. Liters of warp plasma. Coolant. That shit could burn the flesh right off you. Like a big laser. “Hess and Rostov seem to be gettin’ on like peas and carrots.”

“You gave them the lecture?”

Trip could actually meet Archer’s eyes for this conversation. “Hess asked my permission before making a move on him.”

“Sensible. Of course, Hess could kick your butt if you had said no.”

“Eh, I think I’d take ’er in best of seven.”

“Sparring with Malcolm again?”

“He’s got about fifteen black belts. I’ve learned a lot from him.” The iced tea was very sweet, with a touch of mint. The captain hated mint, so he had to have made this with the expectation that Trip would show. It was a nice gesture. A peace offering, maybe.

“When we were on that transport ship that was taken over by the, the cybernetic aliens, he made the most amazing tackle — he was practically flying.” Archer made a sweeping horizontal motion with this hand. “He was just about parallel to the deck. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Trip tipped the PADD toward him, out of the way. “Probably put ‘lifts’ in his boots.” Chili snarf spattered. He smiled for real this time — not much, but it was there. “How’s your sinuses, Cap’n?”

“Fide, dank you bery much,” Archer grumbled through the napkin. “Dat was mead.”

“No, it was funny. It would have been mean if I’d’ve done it to T’Pol.” He tilted the PADD back into view. The mint was actually helping his stomach a little. His mother had made mint tea for Lizzie and Sandy when they were “out of sorts.” He’d forgotten. Little wonder, though, it being a girl thing and all —

“Trip?”

“Hm?”

“Iced tea okay?”

“Yeah, it’s great, thanks. I know you don’t like mint in it.”

“I’ve gotten used to it.”

“Mm.”

Archer waved his spoon. “What’s so fascinating?”

“It’s not. Fuel consumption reports.”

“Ugh. Have fun.”

“The Mardi Gras of paperwork.”

Archer wiped his running nose again. “Dammit, Trip, that chili really burns.”

“I’m sure Phlox can give you something for it.”

“Yes, it but it’ll be purple with yellow stripes and crawl in and out of my nasal cavity under its own power.”

Trip rolled his eyes and let the PADD drop. “Well, if I’d _had_ any appetite left, I sure don’t now.”

“Serves you right. Oh, by the way, there’s something in the one turbolift that grinds every time it gets close to the Bridge.”

“I know, Hoshi sent me a memo. I’ll have a team on it after Beta shift.”

“Can you look at it now?”

“Sure, Lois, let me fire up my X-Ray vision and I’ll give it the ol’ hairy eyeball from right here.”

Archer made a face. “I meant, can you get your team to look at it now, rather than twelve hours from now.”

“No, but I can install a hunk of blackboard behind your chair and have Flannerty scrape her fingernails across it a buncha times for you. That’ll make you forget all about the turbolift.”

“Jeez, Trip, I just asked you a simple question. Who pissed in your cornflakes?”

“I’ve _tol_ dja you don’t walk Porthos enough.” Trip stood and waved the PADD. “I gotta get this back to Hess. Thanks for the iced tea. I’ll see you later.”

Yes, there was something grinding in the ’lift. Likely some gear had come loose after the ship had gotten smacked around by an obnoxious species with an itchy trigger finger. Some culture that liked to blow people up for fun. Racking up random kills. Probably enjoyed the smell of burning flesh, the roar of thunder as the wave of sheer energy pounded through the earth’s crust to leave a gouge a kilometer deep. Aaaaaaand how many liters of warp plasma did we go through this month? Sort of like gasoline mileage on his old car; the more he drove it on the highway the better mileage it got. Was there even a highway left now? Were the Keys still there? Who would do such a thing? What kind of animals were these Xindi, anyway?

The door opened on Deck B. “Good afternoon, Commander.”

“Hey Malcolm.”

“Shall I ask the good doctor to have a chat with Ensign Rodriguez?”

“About the nut behind the wheel?”

That got him one of Malcolm’s patented smirks. “The same.”

“Naw, just give ’im a toolbox and tell ’im that since he obviously has a better idea’n the rest of us where the damn rattle is, he can fix it himself.”

“An excellent suggestion.”

“I’m just abrim with’em.”

A cocked eyebrow. “Did you say ‘abrim’?” The ’lift door slid open.

“Yeah, you know, the flat part of ahat.” The armory officer’s voiceless laugh followed Trip into the corridor. Trip occasionally wondered about that, Malcolm’s reflexive self-effacement. He was a positive genius about deflecting attention from himself, even in the most innocuous of gestures. The man could literally disappear into the wallpaper if he wanted to. A useful skill for a security officer. Not so healthy in day-to-day life. The Tuckers were noisy and boisterous by nature. They couldn’t vanish if you paid them. Unless you vaporized one of them. An avalanche of lightning pouring over the whole town, silhouetted by a towering thunderhead of oily black smoke blotting out the gentle blue sky.

“Any plans this evening?”

“Thought I’d wash my hair and paint my toenails.”

“I’ve a lovely new shade of shocking purple you can borrow.” That got another real smile out of Trip. Mal was much better at banter than Archer was.

“Only if it comes with matching lipstick.”

“Com _man_ der, I’d never send a friend out improperly accessorized.”

Trip rapped Malcolm gently on the shoulder with the PADD as they parted ways. “I can always count on you, Lieutenant.”

“Indubitably.”

In _dub_ itably. Doo bee doo bee doo. Doo bee or not to be, that was the question, to die, to sleep; to sleep: perchance to dream, dreams full of fire and fleeing, dreams of dammit! Trip sighed. He was never going to finish reviewing this stupid report at this rate.

He found a quiet corner in Engineering and read the numbers out loud softly. The echo of his own voice was enough to drown out the screams and thunder for a little while.

By the time he added his _CT3/Chief Engineer NX-01_ to the bottom of the report, his stomach was actually murmuring hopefully. He shut off the PADD and thought for a moment. Chili was right out. Maybe there actually was some soup in the galley. Or an egg salad sandwich; he’d kept one of those down pretty well the other day. With a little applesauce on the side.

Thus resolved, he got up to look for Hess. A survey of Engineering produced a number of concerned looks directed at himself, but no lieutenant. After circling the warp core for the third time, he lost his patience for the search. If she and Rostov were off in a Jeffries tube somewhere, he’d bust them both down to cadet.

“Commander Tucker!” Well, speak of the devil.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Sickbay, sir. Nighthorse got a plasma burn on his arm and I was getting him to Doctor Phlox.”

“Oh.” His anger deflated as they met midway across Engineering, but the tension clung to his brows. “Is he gonna be all right?”

“Yeah, it was his own stupid fault. Wasn’t watching what he was doing. I read him the riot act the whole way in the turbolift.”

“Sounds like you got all the bases covered. I don’t even need to show up for my shift any more. You want the extra pip while you’re at it?” He reached up to take it off his collar.

She grinned. “Not on your life.”

“Well then here, take this instead.”

“Oh, good, I was hoping you’d gotten to it.” She skimmed through his comments and nodded crisply. “Thanks. How was lunch?”

“Stay clear of the chili.”

“Sound advice.” She bustled off, leaving him feeling adrift. Drifting. Swaying. It was sort of eerie, actually, as though he were starting to become lighter and lighter, floating away. His hands tingled faintly. When had he developed a headache? It was sitting right between his eyes like a hat that was on too tight. The sounds of Engineering were oddly distant. A good puff of wind would have knocked him right to his knees. Wind. Wind in his ears, pressure increasing, howling. Roaring. The stench of burning rubber and plastic coating the back of his throat. The earth trembling beneath his feet, asphalt cracking, nowhere to run, slipping and falling, scrambling up again with blood on her hands, knees shaking, _fleeing, running, Lizzie run, you have to run, it’s right behind you Lizzie run get out get out it’s coming down out of the sky you gotta run Lizzie run Lizzie —_

Whoa! How the hell long had he been standing there staring off into space?

He shook himself and blinked several times, feeling gravity settle back into his calves and feet. Maybe food wasn’t such a bad idea. Oh, hell, Nighthorse was hurt. Better go see him first. Damn, he really needed to screw his head on more tightly. Before, he would have been halfway to Sickbay by the time Hess had gotten the word entirely out of her mouth. How could he have forgotten, just standing there, that he had an injured crewman? Poor sonofabitch probably thought his own commanding officer didn’t care about him. Even if it was a dumb mistake, he was still one of Trip’s people, and deserved that much attention. Food could wait.

_They had gotten to Earth two weeks earlier. Crew who had lost someone were still on leave while the captain sorted out the next move with Starfleet. But there was no next move. There was shortly no more Starfleet._

_The Xindi came, in great spherical ships which blotted out the sky like falling moons. San Francisco was wiped off the map in a single gout of armageddon. Scout ships landed by the hundreds. Troops poured out into the streets, rounding up hysterical humans trying to flee or fight back._

_The invaders were three meters tall, covered in a gleaming black exoskeleton, with great slanted eyes which gleamed dully. They chittered. Their tri-jointed limbs carried flamethrowers, variants of the same horrible weapon which had left Trip’s home in rubble. Bullets made no mark on Xindi shells. Knives skidded off the slick carapaces. Anyone who attempted attack or defense was reduced to greasy ash. Resistance was beyond futile. It was immediate, tortuous death._

_Xindi soldiers marched through cities and fields with equal merciless abandon. They burned through doors and walls and seized people out of their beds, hauling them into the street to be stripped and shaved. Terrans were obviously filthy mammals. Babies were incinerated along with parents’ arms, or stepped on and broken like toys._

_Those who survived the initial assault were herded into the scout ships, into pens, packed so tightly there was barely room to stand. People who died from their wounds were passed to a corner and stacked like wood._

_Trip fought, oh he fought, even broke off a few of the spindly hairy joints of the bastard holding Momma down to shear off her hair, but the creature tossed him against the house without even looking up. He awoke later as one of them dragged him by his ankles across the scorched ground. A pile of bodies was mounting outside the holding ship. Trip saw sharp features and staring gray eyes before a liquid inferno engulfed the remains. No amount of martial arts skill was effective against this unstoppable horror. In the moments before the darkness closed over him again, Trip had time to think that Malcolm was lucky, to already be dead. And not have to face what was to come._

“So what happened, Tim?”

Crewman Nighthorse looked pretty miserable. “I’m sorry, sir. I was fixing the one set of relays and the plasma torch — ”

“You were using a plasma torch to fix _relays_?”

“The stupid little microcauterizer takes all day! And if you’re really careful with the plasma torch — ”

“Which you weren’t...” Phlox interjected dryly. Nighthorse glanced over, clearly dreading a two-pronged assault, but the second front didn’t materialize.

“...if you’re really careful with the torch, sir, you can do it in one hour instead of four or five. And we don’t have four or five hours for those relays to be offline.” Well, Trip did encourage creative thinking among his staff.

“Look, it’s not a bad idea, but if you’re gonna be working with that kinda heat, you gotta be paying attention.”

“I know, sir.” He did; the kid looked like he wanted to sink through the deck. Hess was _not_ shy about ripping someone a new asshole for being careless.

“When can he be back on duty?”

“Mmmmmm, three days,” the Denobulan decided. Perfect. Lecture and learning in one shot. Discipline worked better this way.

“Since you aren’t going anywhere, Crewman, write me up a detailed report of what you were _trying_ to do, what went wrong, and how to do it correctly in the future. I want rules, regs, specs, and a list of safety equipment. And don’t pull that stunt again without someone to watch you.”

“Yes, sir.” That kind of report would take a day and a half, at least. It would take Nighthorse’s mind off his injury for a while, he’d learn something from having to think the whole procedure through, and they might actually get a useful repair option out of it. Not bad for a day’s work.

_The Xindi seemed particularly eager to avenge the sins of the humans’ descendants against their own. More than a few ships were taken into orbit, opened to the vacuum, flushed of their asphyxiated cargo, and brought back to the surface for another load. The captives who were deemed strong enough were sent on, to the Expanse._

_It was two months of unrelenting hell. Standing jammed together, naked, with the barest of rations, sleeping upright when sleep could be gotten. The floor was wide grating with a trough underneath to collect excrement. About once a week, icy brackish water poured from holes in the ceiling for five minutes, to rinse down the herd. One woman near the front of the pen begged for someone to kill her, to strangle her, to break her neck. After a while Trip stopped hearing her voice. He wondered if she had gotten her wish._

_He had been separated from Momma and Sandy. He didn’t even know if they were alive. Danny and his family were in Ireland. It was possible they’d escaped into the countryside. Nobody knew what kind of sensors or other technology the Xindi had, beyond their Weapon. They at least had warp drive, or they couldn’t have gotten to Earth; from the vibrations Trip thought they might be going as fast as Warp 6. Which meant that **Enterprise** couldn’t even catch them, if there was anyone left to _

“Hello, Commander.”

“Hey there.” Trip struggled to remember the botanist’s name, and couldn’t.

“What’s dinner tonight?”

“I dunno,” he responded absently, skimming the shelves of prepared dishes.

“Hey Commander? Is it true you and the captain said it was okay for Lieutenant Hess and Crewman Rostov to date?”

Trip glanced up, a little surprised. “Yeah, it’s all right. I mean, we’re all adults, they just hafta keep work and play separate. Why, do you have an objection?”

The ensign grinned broadly. “Hell no, I’m looking for an excuse!” He lowered his voice, confidentially. “I have my eye on someone and I heard the rumor that Captain Archer was ignoring the no-frat rule, so...”

“Break a leg.” Where were the egg salad sandwiches? There had been four of them here just the other day, dammit. Baloney and Swiss was not appealing right now.

“Thanks. Got any, you know, tips?” The botanist leered cartoonishly.

“Bathe, brush and floss, comb your hair, be on time, smile, and bring a little gift. Ladies like flowers. Gentlemen like gadgets.”

He half-frowned, not sure if Trip was joking. “You sound like my mother.”

“Your momma was a wise woman, then. Do you see egg salad anywhere?”

“There’s seafood salad at the bottom.”

“Naaaah.” He was disappointed. He had almost been looking forward to the sandwich. There was applesauce, though.

“How about peanut butter and jelly?”

“What kind of jelly?”

“Raspberry. No, strawberry.”

“Even better.” The man pulled it out of the cubbyhole and handed it to him. “Thanks.”

“Brush _and_ floss, huh?”

“Nothing grosser’n spendin’ a first date with a guy who’s got a piece of broccoli between his front teeth.”

“I dunno, Trip, I’d say the Kreetassan Brain Monster was a _lot_ grosser than broccoli.”

A half-smile. “All right, you got a point, Elise. That _was_ pretty disgusting.” Crewman Kelly was one of the few people not on the bridge who regularly addressed Trip by name, but after being mentally joined by the pile of sentient telepathic goo which had taken up residence in the Cargo Bay, there were certain formalities which could be dropped.

“But broccoli between the teeth is a close second.”

“And garlic breath.”

“If you eat garlic, Paul, you _and_ your date better not come anywhere _near_ me.”

“Does that mean I can’t take you out for escargot?”

Trip left them to their playful bickering and found a table in the corner, by the window. The view was sort of smeary at warp. He began to wish he’d grabbed some more paperwork or a book or something. The famous Tucker-Do list. Doo bee doo bee doo. Da doo ron ron ron, da doo run run. Run run run just as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man. Run away, run away, run, run, it’s gaining on you run Lizzie run you have to run you have to I have to stop doing this!

He sat back, scrubbing at his face, exhaling hard. Food. Right. He took a too-large bite of sandwich before he realized he’d forgotten to grab a drink. Dammit. What an idiot he was today. Getting a PBJ without a glass of milk to go with it ranked right up there with Nighthorse and his plasma torch. And now the peanut butter was sticking in his throat, refusing to be swallowed. When had eating a friggin’ sandwich become such a chore?

“Commander Tucker! May I join you?”

Trip gestured at the other chair, still trying to get the lump of peanut butter and bread down. Phlox eyed him carefully as he took his seat. “You seem to be having some difficulty, Commander. Are you all right?” Trip nodded.

“Jus’ — ” He cleared his throat and coughed a few times before the miserable wad finally gave up and slithered down his esophagus. “ — jus’ — just havin’ a sandwich, is all.”

“Mmmm. A rather light repast, for you,” he observed.

“How’s Nighthorse?”

“Ohhhh, he’ll be fine. Crewman Cutler is watching him. I’ve got an Illarian bael on the burn — the gastropod excretes an amazing substance which speeds up the growth of new skin cells by over fifty percent!”

“Fifty percent, huh?”

Pleased to hear someone react to a description of his treatments with something other than _ick_ , the Denobulan launched into a detailed and exuberant monologue on the bael’s regenerative abilities and its use in medicine. Trip nodded and made appropriate listening noises, letting the plummy tones wash over him without any real understanding. He took smaller bites of his sandwich so it wouldn’t stick again.

Eventually Phlox wrapped up his disquisition on the whateveritwas healing critter. Trip realized with faint shock that he had no idea how long he’d been in the Mess Hall.

“Doc, thanks so much, that was — just fascinatin’. I gotta get back to Engineering, though, I’m still on duty — ” He started to rise from his seat to bus his plate.

“Are you working double shifts?” the Denobulan asked with a frown.

“What?”

“It’s almost 1900 hours, Commander. I thought you were working Alpha shift.”

_1900?_ “I am. I mean, I was. I guess I, ah, I guess I must’ve lost track of the time.”

“Yes, I tend to do that myself on occasion. I become engrossed in some intricate experiment and suddenly it’s morning! Huh!”

“Engrossed. Definitely,” Trip agreed. How the hell had he misplaced _four hours?_ Maybe one of the clocks in Engineering was wrong. “Well, anyway, it was, ah, it was nice talkin’ with ya.”

“Enjoy your evening, Commander!” Phlox chirped.

“You betcha.” Yeah, he’d enjoy whatever he managed not to space through. Four hours? Damn.

He dropped off the plate, and with nothing better to do, decided to go back to his quarters. A long hot shower sounded nice.

Halfway down the corridor, he found himself with an armful of very surprised lieutenant. They both gasped and stammered apologies at each other.

“Sir! Oh, I’m — I’m so sorry, I didn’t — ”

“It’s all right, I didn’t either. You okay?” She clutched at his arms as if unsure of her balance. He steadied her the best he could. His own balance wasn’t entirely up to spec.

“I’m so clumsy — I’ve been dropping things all day — ”

“Well, you nearly dropped us both this time, de la Vega. Were you a quarterback in college?”

She smiled weakly, a small flash of straight white teeth against coffee-colored skin. “Commander, I’m sorry. I haven’t — we’re getting home tomorrow, and I’m a little — not so altogether, you know what I mean?” She made a seesawing gesture with her hand.

“I know exactly what you’re talkin’ about,” he told her seriously. Her smile melted; there was a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

“Sí, so you do.” She gathered herself, standing upright and taking his hands in hers. “When you get back — if you want to talk — to cry, to — anything — there are a couple of us on D deck getting together. I’ll bring some good tequila and we’ll sing to los muertos so they know we haven’t forgotten them.”

Trip squeezed her hands. “That’s — that sounds real nice. Thanks.”

She nodded, then let him go, heading toward the Mess Hall.

Tomorrow. They were getting back to Earth _tomorrow_. How could that have escaped him? Was he really that scatterbrained? He put a hand to his forehead as he resumed walking, almost gingerly, as if his wits might leak out of his skull and spill onto the deck. They’d be there tomorrow. He was going to have to go down and face it. _It_. There. Whatever was left. The scar. The trench. The remains. The remains of the day. The remains of the — How the hell was he supposed to do this?

In his quarters, Trip turned up the water as hot as his flesh could stand before getting into the shower, trying to thaw the chill core inside him. He was still disturbed that he had apparently zoned out for a long chunk of the day, but he at least now he realized what he’d been dodging.

He was going to have to go to the place where his sister had died.

There was no way he was doing this alone. Someone was going to have to be there with him. Burdening his mother was out of the question, and he wouldn’t drag Sandy from her side just to prop him up. Asking Danny to come overseas was too much. Who could stand beside him, to keep him sane?

The captain was his first thought. But...besides the man’s many other responsibilities, Trip just didn’t think he wanted Jon there. He didn’t want his captain to see him so weak. Archer needed to depend on him, needed him strong. He did not need to see his Chief Engineer and unofficial other first officer takin’ a little sanity break. Malcolm?

There was an idea. The Brit had already seen Trip at just about his worst, and hadn’t thought less of him for it. He knew how to keep his mouth shut. He was a good friend. Maybe he could ask —

Oh, and how the hell was he going to do that? _Gee, Mal, I know you haven’t seen your family in two years, but would you mind spending the first day or three of leave with me while I collapse in hysterics next to the big ditch where my baby sister was slaughtered? Thanks, old sod, you’re the best._

Trip stomach roiled and pitched as he dried off and dressed with palsied hands. Oh, I don’t want to do this. I have to do this. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to get it over with. I have to go. I can’t bear this. How much is one man supposed to stand?

He ended up outside Malcolm’s quarters, leaning against the doorjamb, head resting on his hand. He tried to find some obscure way of asking for Malcolm’s presence at the — at — shit, how could he — maybe he should just go — but — dammit, I need — how — I gotta explain the whole thing and — ugh, don’t make me do this —

The hissing of the ’lift doors down the hall decided him. He wasn’t happy about his friend seeing him a mess, but he did _not_ want some random crewmember spotting the Chief Engineer lurking in the Armory Officer’s doorway close to tears. He hit the doorchime before he could think about what he was doing.

The door slid open. “Commander!” Malcolm leaned back in his desk chair, giving Trip a rare warm smile. “Do come in. I see you came to borrow my nail polish after all?”

Trip was able to manage a lopsided grin. Jokes. Makeup jokes were good. “Finished my toes. How about eyeshadow? Something in a soft coral?” He shoved off the jamb and didn’t quite stagger inside.

“Too orange. Not your color. You need more of a dusky rose.” Trip plopped down on the bed, feeling both drained and wound up. How the hell do I say this. Wait — borrow —

“Actually, I wanted to know if you have any mint tea.”

“I believe I do.” He got up and crossed the obsessively neat room, kneeling next to the nightstand, and pulled out a small box from beneath it. He took out a few bags and containers and laid them aside with care. A generically tea scent reached the engineer. “Feeling a bit unsettled?” Malcolm asked without looking up.

“Yes,” Trip answered, staring at his socks. Shit, he’d left his quarters without putting on shoes.

“About going down there?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmm.” Malcolm found the bag he was looking for and held it up for examination. “You’ll need a co-pilot, you know.” He turned and offered Trip the tea and his sympathy with the same hand.

The tension in Trip’s shoulders loosened nearly three-quarters of a turn. Thank god he had at least one friend who could read his mind and not make him _talk_ about everything.

“Yes. And thank you.” He leaned over and took the small bag, slightly surprised that it was thin cloth. The scent was fresh and comforting.

“Is that what you were looking for?”

“Yep. Feelin’ better already.” He really was.

Malcolm nodded. “Just let me know when you’re ready to leave.”

“Shuttlepod One?”

“Would we take any other?”

He gestured with the bag. “Thanks again.”

“My pleasure.”

“G’night.”

“Good night, Mister Tucker.”

 

 

_Xindi delphic expanse four thousand kilometers Xindi building huge weapon delphic seven million Xindi coming to We wiped out their species four thousand venezuela probe miami the keys Lizzie Xindi Lizzie Lindi seven million NO!_

Trip’s eyes sprung open into the soft grayness. He was hunched into himself as though ducking a blow. His heart was racing. He stared mindlessly at the furniture. After the second or third time he’d awoken like this in complete darkness, he’d installed a tiny nightlight on his desk. It helped.

_Damn, I need to sleep. I can’t be up all night._ He rolled onto his back, deliberately trying to relax. _It’s okay. The Xindi sent one probe. The guy wouldn’t have told the cap’n about the larger weapon if we didn’t have a chance to stop them. We’re ready for another probe. It’s okay. It won’t get through. We’ll stop them. We’ll go out there and stop them. We’ll stop the Xindi in the Delphic Expanse we’ll go out there it’s okay we’ll stop them we’ve got seven million dead we can’t let them hurt us again we’ll stop the Xindi they carved a hole four million kilometers deep they carved Lizzie the Xindi they’re coming we’ll stop the delphic expanse wiped off the map we’ll stop them seven million dead falling from the sky we’ll wipe out their sky we’ll carve them four thousand_ ah!

He woke again, thrumming with fear. Fragments of images and streams of words crowded in on him. The sheets clung heavily. He was being smothered. He was being crushed. The ceiling crashing down on him forcing the breath from his lungs —

He tore at the covers, nearly whimpering in distress as he tangled himself further. With a shout, he flung the blankets back and launched himself onto his feet. He stood, panting, and glared at the bed for a long moment, trying to get his bearings. Why had it been so important to get up? What was so important? Why had he leapt out of bed? He’d been afraid. Afraid of something coming. They were coming. The Xindi were coming. The Xindi were coming to butcher the human race. The Xindi were afraid they were afraid of humans they carved a big hole in the human world they killed us and they ran and they should run the bastards they should run from us run away run away running like running like rabbits like Lizzie running running Lizzie run run you gotta run they’re coming they’re burning the sky they’re coming they’re Lizzie dammit!

He shuddered. The first flush of terror had faded, and the sweat was drying on his skin in the cool room. Nightmare. That’s what woke him up. Ah yes. It’s all coming back to me now.

Trip clutched at his hair, trying not to sob. _I want to go home. There’s no more home. There’s no place like home. I want this to be over. I don’t want to do this any more. I can’t stand this. How much am I supposed to bear? How much is one man supposed to bear?_

He sat on the edge of the bunk. Breathe. Just breathe. In and out, in and out. I want this to be over. _I want my life back. I want my sister back. I’m so tired of this_. In and out, in and out. Breathe.

It was a long time before he could lie down again.

 

 

“Good morning, Commander.”

“Mornin’, Hess. Rostov.”

“G’morning, sir.”

Trip sipped at the mint tea on the way to his office. He’d had every intention of having breakfast in the Mess Hall, but one whiff of coffee and cooking oil had sent him packing. His stomach ached from tension. He felt like he’d done a few hundred sit-ups in his sleep. For all he knew, maybe he had. But the tea was nice, and it had enough caffeine to help him reach a reasonable approximation of alertness.

Paperwork. Hooray for paperwork. Not so much as a flicker from the warp drive overnight, according to Gamma Shift’s report. Stupid well-behaved engine. The repair team had taken the turboshaft apart twice before locating the offending chunk of metal which had been causing the racket on the Bridge. Rodriguez — Malcolm was really going to have to give that boy something to do with all the free time he apparently had — had adjusted the scanner assembly to his satisfaction, but now claimed that there was a distinct 5.2% energy loss on a cold restart of the phase cannon, and could someone from Engineering please give him a hand in tracking it down? Oh, to be so young and carefree, that a five percent power drain was the greatest of one’s worries.

There were a few people who had swapped shifts, to be variously on or off duty when _Enterprise_ was due to reach the Sol system. He checked through the week’s roster to make sure everyone was scheduled for the requisite number of hours, regardless of when, and added his okay to Hess’s.

_“Captain Tucker, I’ve located the Xindi’s main munitions depot,” Malcolm reported._

_“Get rid of it,” Trip snarled._

_“That would require destroying the entire moon.”_

_“Have a blast, Commander.”_

_The armory officer’s smirk was somewhat feral, and he punched the buttons on his console with particular glee. Four specially-laden torpedoes streaked from **Excalibur** toward the craggy rust-colored sphere. The moon jerked and exploded into seven million pieces._

_“Damn! Those are some torpedoes, Malcolm,” Trip told him._

_“I was able to use that last set of equations you gave me to increase the yield almost five hundred percent,” he said, just a bit smug._

_“The debris cloud is about to reach the planet,” DiMarco called out._

_“Is it going to penetrate the atmosphere?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“That’ll make some nice shooting stars,” the helmsman observed._

_“Some of the fragments are three kilometers across. They’ll leave large impact craters on the surface.” The science officer looked up from his displays, somewhat alarmed. “The continent below us is densely populated. Never mind shooting stars — Captain, there are going to be casualties.”_

_“How many?” Trip tried to sound objective. DiMarco tapped some panels anxiously._

_“On this continent, possibly a million.”_

_Beeps from the aft section of the Bridge. “A weapons factory, just off the northern pole. Another cache of munitions. Two probes, partially assembled.”_

_“Take the whole mess out, Mister Reed.” Trip sat back in his chair, watching as his first officer neatly eliminated two hundred square kilometers of impending death. There was fire in the sky across Xindar tonight. Let the little bugs tremble._

Out of the corner of his eye he caught the flicker of red-gold hair. He looked up. Hess was not-hovering again, not-watching him through the window. He rolled his eyes and tried to go back to the briefing. Didn’t any junior officer or NCO have any work to do, or was the senior staff running the whole damn ship themselves? And the way his own department was fussing over him lately — it was really starting to tick him off, he had been in ’Fleet longer than any of them, what the hell right did they have to remind him about eating or sleeping, and Hess was on his back all the damn time and getting the rest of the engineers to watch him instead of doing their goddamn jobs —

Unworthy thoughts. He really liked his 2IC. She looked up to him without blind worship, she was smart if conventional in her thinking, and she was almost as much of a perfectionist as he was. She even handled some of the one-banana managerial duties so he didn’t have to. If she was concerned about him, it was the worry of a friend. The same could be said of almost anyone on board. In the last two years, the Enterprise crew had gotten pretty chummy. They looked out for one another. Like friends. Like family.

Family sure knew how to get on your last nerve, though.

Trip pinched the bridge of his nose tightly for a few breaths, trying to keep his unevenly flaring temper under control. _Whatever you’re feeling, stand down. You’re an example for the crew. Cool in public. Rage in private. Don’t do it in the street and frighten the horses._

“Commander Tucker?” It was Nighthorse, arm in a sling, looking a little nervous about bothering him. Don’t do it in the halls and frighten the crew either, Tucker.

“Yeah. Good morning.” He folded his hands and made a determined effort to look pleasant. “What can I do for ya?”

“I have a, a — preliminary draft of that report you wanted, sir.” He edged forward into the small room.

“Let’s have a look.” Trip took the PADD and started thumbing through it. “Sit down, Nighthorse, I’m not gonna bite you.” Unless you grow extra limbs and start to chitter.

“Yes sir, thank you sir.” He seated himself with a care for his bandaged arm.

The report wasn’t fully fleshed out, but it was pretty good for a first run-through. “I didn’t expect this so soon. Nice work.”

“Well, I like to, um, it’s been almost twenty-four hours, sir, and I thought I should get things at least roughed out, you know?”

Twenty-four — The clock in the corner of the display read 1055. Dammit. Trip knew he hadn’t been late for his shift, either. He tried to cover his alarm by reading the report word-for-word, but the heat tolerance formula wasn’t resolving into any kind of sense. After three tries he gave up and handed it back to Nighthorse.

“Looks like you’re on the right track. Polish that up and get it to me when you can. How’re you feelin’?”

The crewman shrugged, with his good arm. “It aches. It itches. The — whatever Doctor Phlox put on my arm, looks like a cross between an overgrown slug and a radioactive starfish — ”

“It’s called a bael.”

Nighthorse looked suitably impressed. “Wow! I didn’t know you knew that, sir.” Ten seconds ago Trip would have sworn blind he hadn’t known he knew that either.

“...So, the bael, he put that on the burn, and it’s healing a lot faster, but I gotta tell ya, that slime _stinks._ ”

“Stinks?”

“Oh, it’s awful. It’s like — like burning rubber.” The stench of burning rubber and plastic coating the back of his throat. Thundering destruction pummeling down from the sky. “It’s revolting.” Trip nodded stiffly, all the tendons in his neck suddenly pulled tight as piano wire. He realized was grimacing as though he could actually smell the stench, and tried to breathe out, to let go of some of the tension.

“That, ah, that sounds pretty nasty.”

“Well, it’s three days with Stinkyfish or two weeks off-duty, so...”

“I hear ya.”

Nighthorse rose. “I’ll, um, I’ll finish this up — have somebody look over it — uh, is tomorrow morning okay? Or do you need it before we get home?” Before we get home. We’re going home. We’re —

“Tomorrow mornin’s fine.” They nodded at each other, and the other man left. Trip sat where he was and closed his eyes, just breathing. His mind was empty, holding off the inevitable next step for as long as possible. He was hollow. He felt nothing, thought nothing. Breathe. Breathe. Emptiness.

He opened his eyes and smacked himself mentally. _Pull yourself together, you idiot. You’re second or third in command on the flagship of Starfleet. Put some goddamn starch in your spine. Lizzie was one of seven million. Nobody special at all. The universe didn’t end. Go do your frigging job._

The clock beeped 1100 hours. Perhaps it was time for him to make an appearance on the Bridge?

He stood. His head spun wildly and he sat down again. Food. He really shouldn’t have skipped breakfast. Did he have anything in his stash?

He rifled through the drawers of his desk and came up with two pieces of some Ixpar’an confection which closely resembled chocolate. Good chocolate, too, creamy and rich. He let each piece dissolve in his mouth individually before attempting to gain his feet again. He checked his mug. Just a swallow of tea left, stone cold. It still helped. Caffeine and chocolate. Where would Starfleet be without caffeine and chocolate?

Trip felt much better now that he had a decent sugar rush going on, and he headed out of Engineering, almost in a good mood. If there were murmurs and whispers along the walkways, he was going to pretend he hadn’t heard them.

The ’lift doors opened onto the Bridge.

“Commander.”

“Good morning, T’Pol.”

“Hello, Trip.”

“ ‘Hello, Trip’? Is that all you can say?”

Archer looked around, rather confused, to face his engineer, who stood just outside the turbolift with his arms crossed. “What?”

“I got that grinding in the turbolift fixed and you don’t even notice.”

“ _I_ noticed,” Hoshi shot back. “I didn’t have to put in my earplugs this morning.”

“You’re welcome,” he told her.

“Thanks, Trip.”

“That’s it for repairs on this deck, you understand,” he continued as crossed the room. “I’m not chasin’ down any imaginary squeaks in the floor plating. No more fiddlin’ with the almighty chair.”

“I have noticed an increased delay in the reception of data at my station from the aft sensor array,” T’Pol said calmly.

Conversation stopped absolutely flat. Heads swiveled madly.

Trip raised one eyebrow.

T’Pol raised one eyebrow.

“How _much_ delay, Subcommander?”

“Any variance in our sensors is unacceptable. It prevents us from collecting accurate telemetry.”

“How much, T’Pol?”

She dipped her head. “Zero point three seven percent.” Choked laughter and a few splutters. Trip’s mouth fell open.

“You made a joke!”

“Vulcans do not joke.”

Malcolm tapped something on his board. “I’m sorry, Subcommander, but according to _The Joint Terran-Vulcan Handbook of Humor, Megrim, Wit, and Whimsy_ , Section Epsilon, Article Fifteen, Paragraph Seven, I’m afraid that remark does indeed come under the rubric of ‘teasing,’ ” he announced, adding a touch of extra pompousness to his voice. T’Pol raised the other eyebrow.

“You’ve been waitin’ a long time to spring that on her, Mal.”

“Months,” he agreed.

“Commander. The sensor array?”

Apparently she was serious. Trip lifted his hands in defeat, his tiny balloon of amusement sinking. “I’ll add it to the to-do list.”

“Thank you.”

Malcolm muttered something under his breath. Trip was too far to catch the exact words but _bloody spoilsport_ was being transmitted on all the telepathic channels.

“Entering Sol system,” Travis called from the helm.

“Warp three. Slow to impulse when we pass Mars.”

“Aye sir.”

Yeah, take it slow into the system. Wouldn’t do to crash head-on into the moon. Can’t plow into the planet, leave a gouge four thousand Stop it! To-do list, find a PADD, where’s a PADD, here a PADD, there a PADD, ah Malcolm’s got a PADD, “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“You’re welcome. How was the tea?” he added quietly.

“Hit the spot. Thanks.” He aimed himself at the back of the Bridge and started moving to head off further conversation. Happy thoughts. Access Tucker-Do list. T’Pol’s station. Aft sensor array. Would an orbital sensor array tied into a defense net have stopped the probe before it could fire? Could a web of satellites be deployed around the planet? Estimate transmission ranges of standard orbital satellite, to the next satellite and to the planet. At given orbit _n_ , estimate area of spherical orbit surrounding Terra. Divide. Estimate speed of dammit, why am I _doing_ this?

Trip bumped into the console in the briefing area. He set the PADD down and began punching random buttons, hoping something of interest would come up to occupy his attention. No such luck. He felt the captain drift over and put a hand on his shoulder. Oh, please, not now —

“Look, Trip,” he said in a low voice, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I’m not even sure...I know how to help.” Archer squeezed gently. “But I want you to know I’m here.”

“I know that,” Trip murmured.

“If you want to talk, or, or, or you need a — you need to vent, or just yell, you can find me. There’s nothing so important that I can’t put it aside for you.”

“Except meeting with Starfleet and the Vulcans and quite possibly the president.” Trip looked up, understanding and regret mixed on his face. “Thanks for the offer.”

Archer sighed. “Take me up on it some time.”

Trip looked down again, tapped more buttons. “I don’t...I don’t really wanna talk about it, Cap’n.”

“So then don’t. We’ll talk about something else. We can go out for dinner and make fun of Soval. Or watch water polo. Or we’ll —” He gestured randomly. “We’ll break out the tents and go camping. We’ll hike in the Adirondacks. Just don’t...”

Archer trailed off, waiting until the engineer faced him. “Don’t shut me out.”

“Not tryin’ to.” Dammit, couldn’t the man see he was nearly crying?

“I know, little brother, but we haven’t managed to have an entire meal together in a month.” Despite himself, Trip grinned widely. He couldn’t remember the last time Archer had called him that. “Your mother’s going to think I’ve got you on prison rations. There’s practically room for two of you in that uniform.”

Amazing, how a turn of phrase could release so much tension. He felt a year younger. “I’ll run right down to the galley after m’shift and order up some pecan pie.”

“Make it a steak dinner. With lots of butter on the mashed potatoes.” He squeezed Trip’s shoulder again and then let go.

“Thanks, Jon,” Trip said softly. Archer nodded.

T’Pol joined them. “Commander Tucker. I recognize that you have many tasks to which you must attend. The variance is not a high priority.”

“It’s all right, T’Pol. Trip will make sure one of his people gets to it in — what, a day or so?” Trip nodded, not quite ready to speak. “You’ll be back up to speed before you know it.”

She frowned delicately. “If my station resumes functioning at peak efficiency, I will indeed ‘know it.’ How could I not know something which I know?” Archer laughed, but Trip could see the wheels in his brain churning madly as the captain tried to figure out a way to explain the expression. _Vulcans do not joke, my ass_. T’Pol could yank Archer’s chain with the skill and precision of a nanosurgeon. And Trip would bet his favorite spanner that she enjoyed it too, in her logical Vulcan way.

“Captain,” Travis called. All three officers looked over. “It’s our sun.”

The smile fell off Trip’s face. Time slowed, stretched out, flattened. They were home. They were here. They were _here_. He felt his scalp tighten and his hands flush cold. His stomach took its own turbolift down into Engineering somewhere and curled up in a corner, sobbing. He could barely move. They were home. They were home. They were here.

Around the Bridge, Malcolm appeared interested, as though they just spotted some curious new astronomical phenomenon. Hoshi looked pensive. T’Pol returned to her station. Archer strode forward, toward the viewscreen. They were home. They were —

An alarm sounded.

“A vessel’s dropping out of warp,” reported Malcolm. Vessel — the Xindi they’re coming the Xindi _they’re here I gotta stop them the Xindi they’re coming a vessel the Xindi a vessel they’re here they’re_ engine readouts were spilling out onto the screen below his trembling fingers. He had no idea how he had wound up at the station next to Malcolm. “They’ve fired some kind of — ”

Explosions rocked the ship. Sparks showered him, once, twice. Trip wanted to dive under the console and scream. He wanted to knock the whyisn’theshootingyetsomearmoryofficeryouare aside and fire every weapon they had at the bug bastards who killed his baby sister. He wanted —

“Duras,” Archer was growling.

Klingons?

The Xindi were coming and they had to deal with goddamn _Klingons_? Didn’t these testosterone-soaked idiots understand there were bigger things at stake here?

Thrust and parry, fire and crossfire. The engines whined and wailed but stayed up. More explosions. Trip watched his board and tried to keep his feet. _plasma injectors coolant levels_ Malcolm scored some hits. _impulse reactor power drain life support_ The Klingons walloped their hull. _hull stress reroute to structural integrity relays impulse reactor_ Travis and the captain were yelling maneuvers at each other like a deranged word association game. _coolant levels life support plasma injectors_ Malcolm barked damage reports to both ships. _impulse reactor what the hell kinda crazy move is that Travis power holding_ Another violent jolt, _hull stress ouch that was a hit_ hard enough even to ruffle T’Pol’s helmet of hair. _relays plasma injectors_

And then it was over, and the Klingons were fleeing. Captain Ramirez came onscreen to offer the usual dumb pleasantries which allies shared after a fight. Trip glanced over the notes coming in from his crew. Nothing serious. That was a small relief. There was a flurry of button-pushing and switch-flipping as the other department heads checked with their own people. Minor injuries, maybe two days of repair tops. The engines themselves were undamaged. The nacelles had taken something of a beating, though, and would need work.

Archer finished his conversation with the _Intrepid_ and wandered over to Tactical. “That was some really nice shooting, Malcolm.”

“Thank you, and my regards to the psychotic at the Helm. I didn’t know a ship this size could pivot like that without shredding into so much confetti.”

“Piece of cake,” Travis called cheerfully.

“Don’t mention food,” Hoshi groaned. “You left my stomach somewhere back in orbit around Deimos.”

“Would you like me to turn around and go back for it?”

“Ensign Mayweather, please resume your original heading.”

“She was right the first time. Vulcans do not joke,” Trip grumbled. Malcolm smirked.

“How _did_ the ship hold up?” Archer asked quietly.

“Seems to be all right. A little strain around the nacelle struts, but it’s not like they’re gonna come off at warp.”

“Hmm. We’ll have to talk to the boys at Jupiter Station — ” Two glares challenged the captain’s doubts in _Enterprise’s_ crew. “...we’ll — have our people find some way to reinforce those struts so they can tolerate extreme shear,” he amended. “Trip, show Travis what happened to the nacelles and see if he can work with Engineering to come up with some solutions. He’ll have a good idea of how any theories might actually play out in flight.”

“Aye cap’n.” Archer meandered off and started moving around the Bridge, talking with different people, soothing nerves and exchanging reports. Trip focused on grooming the nacelle stress numbers into neat patterns for easier analysis.

Malcolm swore at his display, softly but with great intensity.

“What?”

“Rodriguez,” he growled.

Trip chuckled. “You know, I was thinkin’ — why don’t you give him the Riemann hypothesis as an ongoing project?”

The armory officer looked up with a frown. “The Riemann? That’s nearly three hundred years old, isn’t it? I thought it was unprovable.”

Trip shrugged. “Tell ’im that his attention to detail has absolutely convinced you that he’s the guy to do it. It’ll keep ’im busy for a few weeks, at least.”

Malcolm considered this. “Might be worth a shot.”

“What have you got to lose?”

“With my luck, the little blighter will actually develop a proof.”

“That’ll get ’im off the ship for sure, then.”

“Hm! You’re right. Thank you.” He began composing an answer. Trip transferred the nacelle data to a PADD and brought it down to Travis.

“Here ya go, Ensign.”

“Thank you, Commander. Sorry about the bumpy ride.”

“Hardly felt a thing.” Travis set the PADD aside, intent on bringing the ship in. Trip glanced up at the viewscreen reflexively.

Earth hung there in the dark, a swirled and glistening aqua jewel.

He ran out of breath staring at it. So beautiful, so fragile, wounded and aching. Naked. Vulnerable.

— _going about their business, laughing, talking, daydreaming, driving, playing, working, sleeping, eating, when suddenly the heavens opened up and hell poured out —_

_Enterprise_ slid into a high orbit, cresting California, passing over the midwest.

_silver sphere floating waiting charging_ —  
  
It had been here, he realized. The probe had been right here, cruising above the defenseless planet. A star full of slaughter. Trip felt his knees wobble. What did the pilot think, as the lance of fire streaked out from under his feet to stab into the soft green ground? Was he proud? Exultant? A wild-eyed fanatic screeching and ululating to his vengeful god? Did he think he was _right_?

_the sky filled with light terrible bright burning scorching heart exploding whiteness into nothing_

He caught the barest glimpse of the char mark before he tore his eyes away as though the image would sear out his retinas. He couldn’t look up, couldn’t bear it, couldn’t force himself. Conversation on the Bridge dwindled into a hush.

_run — Lizzie run —_

His hands started to shake. He clenched them behind his back.

_— Lizzie it’s coming they’re coming it’s here it’s falling out of the sky get outta the way you’ve gotta run_

He hadn’t realized the depth of his own denial. He had almost hoped, somehow, before this moment, that it was wrong, that they were all wrong, that it wasn’t real. A horrendous mistake. Something that could be fixed. Something that could be undone.

_shiny metal probe winking in the clear blue sky pounding raging destruction concrete falling gouging crushing buildings collapsing smoke and fire Lizzie no there’s no way she could have survived Lizzie oh Lizzie please be there_

He dimly heard taps and clicks, as Travis established geosynchronous orbit above the desecration. Above the great bloody gash on the throat of their world. Trip’s spirit hemorrhaged into the void.

_nothing left there’s nothing left there’s nothing oh god no please no_

He sensed Archer approaching on his left, Malcolm on his right. No one spoke. There was nothing to be said. Words couldn’t have come from him anyway. He felt as though the life were draining out of him, leaving behind a Tucker-shaped shell which had once been a man.

_oh my god Lizzie Lizzie Elizabeth the sky is falling_

The crew left their stations one by one, drawn to the screen, staring at it, even though images had been available to them for weeks. Someone made a raw grieving sound. Trip was silent, hollow, iced over. There was nothing left of his heart to cry out with.

_this can’t be happening_

But it was. Whether he could bear to look or not. There was no more denial, no more fantasies of saving her, no way to bring back seven million dead. They were gone. Home was gone. So much was gone. A wide smoldering trench burned four thousand kilometers long, running right through his soul. He would never be whole again.

_the sky is falling_

_the sky is falling_

_oh lizzie_

_lizzie i love you please run_


End file.
